The 'Toughest Push In Wales' or CLI NT Hill as it's also been called, had led to a later than anticipated arrival at Penhros Isaf. In turn, that had resulted in a later than usual departure the following morning, which meant the food provided by the cafe was more late lunch than early breakfast. By the time each of us had taken our turn to say, "we'll just have one last brew", whatever light there was, had begun to disappear.

Something was wrong, my legs wouldn't work. They hadn't been overly compliant the previous day but I'd shrugged it off and assumed day two would see them return to their usual form - I was wrong. Insignificant inclines became monstrous hills and I found myself twiddling along in 22 / 32, while trying hard to formulate convincing excuses for Mike and Scott. My only hope was that tomorrow would be better.

Although gravel had given way to tarmac, the change in surface didn't herald the arrival of civilisation. The road pushed us deeper and deeper into the mountains but in doing so took us nearer to our destination. The map indicated a bridge, a left turn, a track and if luck was with us, somewhere to spend the night out of the incessant wind and rain. The deafening roar of water indicated that we'd crossed the ancient stone bridge and in accordance with the map, we found the start of a puddled, muddy track leading off into the blackness. In less than five minutes we would find out whether my hunch had been correct. If it was, then salvation and a haven for the night beckoned but if I was wrong, well, let's just say the evening could become very unpleasant, very quickly. We pedalled on, each of us secretly wishing, hoping and praying.

A kink in the track delivered us from evil. Lights picked out the dark silhouette of a structure just off to the right - we weren't home and dry but hopefully, we were home. The final tussocks of the day deposited us safely by the front door. I turned the broken remnants of the handle, nothing. I was unwilling to believe it was locked, so tried again with a little more force - bollocks. Mike was already making his way round the side looking for a chink in the building's armour. I stood staring at the locked door. I looked down at the floor hoping to see a piece of slate lent against the wall or a stone that looked out of place, anything that might indicate the location of a key. No stones and no slate, I lifted my head and looked up. Hammered into the door frame was a rusty screw, hanging from it was an even rustier strip of metal. For no real reason, I reached up and lifted the metal from the screw and beneath the bent strip of oxidising steel was a key. I walked inside and straight over to the window Mike was trying to get through. "How did you get in there?", "magic" I replied.

Downstrairs was spacious, dry and just a little dusty and upstairs was the same. A brush was located and in full accordance with the 'leave no trace' ethos we set to. Five minutes later and you'd never have known the place had received any form of cleaning. With our bedroom now sorted, we retired back down the wooden stairs to partake in the age old bikepacking ritual of eating, brewing up and talking rubbish. It was a friendly building, it almost felt lonely. Perched high out in the mountains waiting for the warmth and noise of human company, a reminder of its previous life. As we sat, sprawled out along the battered wooden benches, the building slowly drew the heat out of us. At first it was just feet but the old stone and slates were hungry and within a couple of hours we were all starting to experience the tell tale shivers that indicate bed-time. We ascended the stairs once again and reacquainted ourselves with sleeping bags.

I wanted to sleep but the more I wished for a speedy journey to the land of nod, the more unlikely it became. I lay there listening to Mike and Scott as they contended for first prize in the 'Worlds Noisiest Mat' competition. Scott's Neoair sounding very much like the often mentioned crisp packet and Mike's Exped producing a more worrying sound, a sound like someone rubbing a half inflated balloon between their arse cheeks. With the collar of my jacket stuffed firmly in my ears, I rolled onto my side and stared out of the low window that faced me and thought. I thought about my legs and whether a new day would see them rejuvenated. I wondered whether the rumbling noises from my stomach meant I was hungry or full. I tried to work out how I'd not seen Mike blow up a balloon while I'd been in the same room and I thought about the lights outside the window. I gave the glass an extra hard stare hoping that it might scare the approaching lights away but they just got brighter. I told myself there couldn't be lights, after all we were up a dead-end track in the middle of nowhere at midnight, why would there be lights? Unfortunately, the only answer I could muster was that, the lights and more importantly, whoever was in charge of them must be coming here.

I decided not to invoke panic until the moment I actually heard a car draw-up outside and its engine stop and its doors open, I quietly said, "there's someone here". Mike had obviously decided that a certain level of panic was called for in this instance and replied, "you're f*cking jokin'" but soon realised I wasn’t, as the beam of a torch rushed through the window and lit the entire room up. We waited for the noise of a door catch but it didn't come, we thought about all the things we'd left down stairs in plain view through the windows and regretted all the money we'd ever spent on high-viz this and reflective that. We could hear faint voices but couldn't make out any words, lights continued to flash across the building and through the windows but still no one came in. BANG! Scott had remained largely quiet until that point, "f**k me, is that a gun?" he said trying to be as quiet as you can be in such circumstances. I let out an imaginary sigh of relief, they weren't here for us, they were here for the foxes. Minutes turned to treacle and passed like hours but eventually the car was started once more and the lights faded. Okay, now close your eyes and go to sleep, I told myself but out on the hillside a second shot kept my eyes wide open. For an hour, I watched the lamps light up the sky in the distance. The noise of an engine was never out of ear shot but sadly it wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of rustling crisp packet and someone rubbing a half inflated balloon between their arse cheeks.

Wild camping immediately adjacent to a village cemetery in Sardinia, I was woken by . . . . . the very distinctive sound of . . . . shotguns being cocked.
What to do? Call out and face the wrath of illegal hunters, or keep shtum and risk being mistaken for something huntable? I chose to shout out, and in return was met with . . . silence. Ominous silence.
I did not sleep at all for the rest of the night.

On Torino-Nice Rally a few years ago with Wriggles from this parish, we slept in the Napoleonic fort on the penultimate night, and had this tame fox that stole some of his food, it was really tame and kept coming back round looking for snacks. I woke up a few times with it not far from me, and ended up sleeping with a small pile of stones in front of me to shoo it away. Also woke up about 5.30am, stuck head out of bivvy bag a few nights early to an old Italian mushroom hunter giving me a poke with his stick, he had a Gandolf of a beard, big stick and felt hat, surprised the hell out of me...

Also travelling down through Ghana years ago, not on bike, but my old Land Rover 101 forward control, found what we thought was a quite site to get some kip, only around 7am found that we were basically sleeping in the middle of a dirt road, with buses, cars and bikes just driving around us

A sand dune behind the beach on Eriskay in the Western isles. We'd pitched the tents, biked the half mile to the pub, had a few beers and food then returned in the strengthening wind. Next up the rain came on coinciding with my bladder reacting to the cheap ale. In the next hour I was up about 5 times. The wind got worse and worse and it was lashing down. Finally nodded off only to be woken by the tent bashing me on the head. The wind had swung 90 degrees and was hitting the front corner of the tent. The shitey wee pegs were also pulling out of the sandy ground and the tent was collapsing around me. I got up for yet another slash, attached the guys to bikes and rocks and failed to sleep. Several long hours later dawn broke and I got up, packed up the tent and wobbled down to the ferry terminal. I slept for a bit but was woken by a couple of backpackers entering.....

Well seeing as it was my anecdote that started this thread off, maybe I should tell the story.

It was a few years ago, one summer, and I thought I had this bicycle touring sorted, so embarked on an overnighter straight from work just to see how things went, free without a care.
I left Thetford station around 19:00 still with around two hours of light left and cycled along deserted tracks to join up with the Icknield Way, I didn’t pass anyone on the way for a long time until I chanced upon a scene of total mud carnage, three lads had managed to get a Land Rover discovery properly stuck in a massive mud hole just off the track, they were covered in mud and exhausted, so me in my cheery and polite way asked if they were OK? Only to receive the biggest tirade of foul language, from what was now obvious as members of the travelling community, I just said OK and started on my way, one of the lads then jumped in front of me and asked me to go to some place and ask for some guy and tell him where they were and to come with a rope, I declined this generous offer but this just made things worse, and they then felt borrowing my bicycle was now an option, I made a very rapid exit, and I could hear the shouting for ages, by know it was getting dark and I was still a little flustered, I was on the only track going in one direction, there was no-one around and I was on a bicycle. I didn’t know what to do, but getting tired eventually settled for what looked like a half decent spot off the track and in a small clearing, circling back a few times to make sure I wasn’t spotted slipping into the trees, I set up my bivvy bag and basha and put the kettle on before getting into my sleeping bag. I was woken about an hour later with the sound of the LR diesel being properly ragged, they must have got it unstuck, goodness knows how far away it was, but I was properly frightened, I convinced myself they were coming for me, my heartbeat was going to give me away, I dragged my bike under my basha and waited, I could again hear them over the engine, screaming and hollering, I had my bicycle multi-tool as the only thing I thought I could use, I was going to be found squashed by a land rover or worse. I was angry with myself for getting involved. Around a few hours later it went really quiet apart from the pigs and foxes, then I was really spooked. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all, I hated bivvy bags because I couldn’t see without getting bitten by insects, and I wanted to stay alert. I couldn’t wait to get going in the morning and just pedalled as fast as I could until I came to a small village, only then stopping to make a cup of tea, and some porridge.

literially in a bush outside arcata california, june 2011. the bush was by the sewage works. as soon as the sun went down the rats came out. there was 3 of us just cowboy camping. i could feel rats jump/climber over the bottom of my sleeping bag. we did enjoy some of humbolts finest before hand which might have led to none of us thinking sleeping somewhere else was a better idea.

i sometimes wonder if i dreamt this. i think i was probly just reading too much crimethinc at the time and wanting to live that punk oogle life

Went to Dulyn bothy over the hills from Llandudno, spent all day taking the long route there. All good, sun was warm but chilly if not in it as it was spring.

Anyways, arrived at the bothy via that steep hike a bike descent south west of the hut and had an hour or so light left. Felt uneasy entering the bothy, but cracked in, boiled the pan of water and started to eat. Could hear voices nearby but couldn’t see anyone. This carried on until dusk, heard voices in the valley but couldn’t see anyone.

Being a complete wimp, I packed up and left Could still hear voices and now it was dark, but no sign people or lights from torches etc. Ascended back up the hike and bike and when I looked backed at the bothy, there was a light coming from it. Properly freaked me out!

Have since spoken with people who have visited that bothy and get an uneasy feeling when there, one guy I knew woke up in the night feeling like someone was strangling him

Obviously my mind went over time but can’t see me visiting that bothy again! Have stayed in other bothy a without incident

1. Chased up a tree (in only my shreddies) by a family of about 20 wild boar. I sat there shouting at them getting colder and colder as they ignored me and wandered round, nibbled my kit and generally did whatever they wanted until they got bored and wandered off.

2. During a serious bit of alpine weather I stumbled across a tiny (empty) shed/hut and decided that it was to be my impromptu bothy for the night. Despite not being quite long enough diagonally for me to lay straight it was serving it's purpose until I was woken up by an angry French farmer dude kicking me (more an angry foot poke) to inform me that I was NOT welcome to sleep in his shed - dick!

This thread reminds me why I don't really like bothies much, or at least really hit and miss for a good night. Something 'a bit murdery' about a lot of them.. Maybe we spent too much time as kids doing dares in a couple of old deserted houses. That cellar with the dead bats lined up in jars...

I need to find a picture of the place we stayed in the Langtang area of Nepal during a trip in 2017. The park boundary is shut after 9pm and we missed the cut off so had to find a room locally but it wasn't really a tourist area. Room looked like the set of a Saw film before the blood was spilt, or Fungus the Bogeyman's bedroom. Totally safe but the phrase 'a bit murdery' came up first there and was on my mind all night. Views at dawn were incredible though.

My only genuinely scary bivi was on my way back from TNR last year, riding across the Verdon area before heading N through France. I had a really nice evening relaxing in Mousiers, overlooking the lake. Went to scout out a nice bivi, found one with a lovely view over the lake that would have the sun setting behind it, went back to town for dinner. Spent 30 euro on a couple of posh local craft beers and a great 'artisan' pizza. Treated myself. Came back to the bivi spot a little sleepy and there was a guy car camping nearby with a stove on making his dinner. Thought nothing of it, happy to share a spot with a camper. He saw me arrive, I waved a 'bonsoir' and he carried on cooking.
Set up a comfortable space away and pretty much out of sight. Slept well until 1-2am when I was woken up by the sound of pans being thrown around and shouting, French swearing at full volume, sounded like a real domestic row but with only one voice. Mr car-camper is on his own and very angry. I sit up, move over a bit and can see enough from his torch light to see he's ranting and raving but not on a phone, both hands are flailing around. I try to ignore it and sleep but it goes on a bit and I think he has mental issues. I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time with someone like that once and it ended up all scuffly and not a great situation. Started to pack up very quietly with no light as I could just imagine his paranoia being triggered by me being there, was half packing up and half watching to see if he ran over while thinking of self defence plans. Pretty scared by then tbh, had properly woken up and realised he'd have cooking knives and all sorts over there. Hunting guns in the car maybe? As I got everything roughly loaded I turned my head torch on and scooted for the road. I thought he saw me as his light pointed my way and he shouted in my direction, but not sure really. I got about 5km down the road and settled on a bivi with a rather defensive position high above the road

Chased up a tree (in only my shreddies) by a family of about 20 wild boar.

.....I was woken about an hour later with the sound of the LR diesel being properly ragged, they must have got it unstuck, goodness knows how far away it was, but I was properly frightened, I convinced myself they were coming for me, ....

First time experiencing bothy life, a friend and I did part of the Dirty Reiver route on a dry February Saturday to then stay at Wainhope over night and then gentle ride round the lake, up to the observatory on the Sunday before we got back to the car. After a long afternoon of fighting into a headwind we eventually made it up the track and when the bothy came into view there was the gentle puff of smoke coming out of the chimney and two chaps outside in walking gear. While we'd both chatted about the joys of chatting to like minded individuals over an open fire, I think we'd actually hoped it might be empty. As we rolled up to the door there was a faint din of music, we were greeted by a chap in his late 50's who inquired about out trip and began to inform us of his walk in, all the while more and more people started emerging from the bothy.

It turns out he was part of a group of ex-miners and their sons from Barnsley who organise a piss-up in a bothy every 6 months and we were their lucky guests for the night. They split themsleves off into the two rooms - the younger chaps in their 20s in the main room while we were invited to share with the elder statemen of the group - the chap in his 50's, and two chaps who may well have been anywhere from 60-100 years old. Thinking we'd been fortunate, we started to realise we'd probably have been better in the 'party room' because at least the rave meant consistent noise, we were subjected to hours of acrid roll-ups smoke, the burning of every piece of plastic packaging they brought with them.

My friend and I cooked and then started playing cards and chatting bollocks (aforementioned by Stu) when due to the increased imbibedment of cheap own brand stubbie lager, the ring leader showed some short term memory loss and began to repeatedly regale us with his verbal treatise on such subjects as:
Water shortages in the 70's in which they transported water from Kielder to Manchester (repeated 4 times)
Why the channel is the reason we won the war (2 times, I missed the first one, which became apparent when my friend shocked me wildly by answering what the chap had intended as a rhetorical question)
How the young-uns had only brought a 'spicebag' of coal between them, when he'd carried in 20kgs himself (countless times)
How bothys are for everyone (seemingly to justify their ability to make it almost unbearable for anyone else)
The negative impact the Thatcher government had on the British coal industry (repeated ad nauseum and with slightly less neutral language then I've referenced here)
What he and his associates would do should a statue of the first female Prime Minister be erected in Grantham
His concern that he hadn't put enough money in the parking and that they may be getting tickets if they weren't back at the car by 8 (10 times) shortly followed each time by;
The lengths with which he would go to should he receive a ticket

Each of these was followed by one of the other older gentlemen proclaiming incredibly loudly "I ugree" as if it were his catchphrase (this is now an in joke between my friend and I whenever we are on bikes).

Once the repetition of facts and opinions on conservative fiscal policy died down, we tried to bed down for the night as did the older two chaps eventually, although this revealed two things. One of them had a cough which can only have been gained from years of inhaling coal dust, each time shouting 'bloody hellfire' to make us aware that he was still alive and that hadn't been the last exhalations he would emit. The second being that the other chap, had switched from his by now endearing-in-a-Stockholm-syndrome-kind-of-way catchphrase of "I ugree" to snoring incredibly loudly or 4-5 minutes punctuated by tourettes-esque exclamations of "foookin 'ell" but that took about 2 seconds too long to say.

After a long night of tossing and turning, I finally drifted off around 5am, only to be awoken by them leaving at 6 so they could get back to their cars in time to save them from a ticket. We made a slow start to the day, brewing up, making breakfast, doing the best to tidy up the mess left behind and eventually rode off for a lap of the lake. After about 15 minutes of riding we began to pass them in groups of 2 or 3, each time yelling "I ugree" at the top of our lungs.

When I finally made it home that night, I slept for 13 hours and was tired for days.

Ooh bothies. Many years ago, probably around 13 or so, I found myself at Nant Syddion on a school night in Feb. I had the place to myself until around 10.00pm when two blokes arrived. I'd already laid my stuff out on a bench besides the fire so after a brief chat they retired upstairs and I settled down.

I was awoken around 2.00am by screaming, banging and shouting. It was a proper bolt upright in bed moment. It genuinelly sounded like someone was being attacked and not faring well. I thought for a second amongst the noise before thinking f*ck it and stuffing my sleeping bag in my ears and trying to go back to sleep. It happened twice more during the night but next morning both were still alive.

I asked if everything was okay and received a gruff response from one bit later the other explained that his friend suffers from severe night terrors - he weren't wrong.

No matter how much research was done prior to purchase, nor the expenditure thus incurred, nor the quality of company and comestibles prior to bedding down, nor even the feeling of contentment afforded by all of the above . . . . when the heavens open and muddy water levels rise above the tent bathtub floor, one is 'not going to sleep well that night'.

Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, California

I hadn't pitched in an obvious water course, the torrential rain just flooded the whole area.
2kms up the road, I saw many RVs stuck up to their axles in the glutinous sand, clay mix.

Many years ago a group of us were in Chamonix skiing and had rented a chalet. I'd been in Oman where one of the local critters is commonly called a Camel Spider. Lots of lurid tales about these but in truth they aren't harmful to humans though they will "approach" us as they are seeking out the shade caused by our shadow.

Anyway, one night I related a few of these lurid tales, one of which concerned a soldier during the Gulf War awakening to find one eating his face (definitely not true this). At some point in the early hours there's a blood curdling scream that wakes three floors of the chalet!

Turns out one of the party had taken things a little too literally The rest of us were left wondering if there was an intruder on the premises.